10. Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten
Annaliese
I press my fists against my lids, rubbing hard to wipe away the sleep. When I open my eyes, my blurred vision settles, and I can start to make out the patient names and case times on the surgical wall.
“You look like shit.”
I twist my head to turn over my shoulder at Martin and pretend to scratch my nose with my middle finger. “Good morning to you, too.”
Martin chuckles, causing his copper-red curls to bounce as his shoulders shake. He takes a swig of his matcha and points to the schedule with the cup in hand. “You’re with Dr. Andrews again?”
What day am I not with him? My schedule since coming here has been nothing short of brutal. The average resident works roughly eighty hours a week, and is on overnight call once every four days. For me, there’s never a break. I’ll do the standard eighty hours, but I’m on call nearly every night. I’ve felt myself slipping into that miserable purgatory where I’m always on the verge of getting sick, which means my blood sugar levels have been crazy. My mom is furious and keeps begging me to talk to my dad, but I know if I tell him it’s too much, he’ll love it. He’ll finally get the satisfaction of hearing me say exactly what he’s been begging for me to whine about my entire medical career.
And I’ll be dead before I whine to him.
“It’s like that Groundhog Day movie. Every day is a repeat of the day before. No matter how much I try to change the outcome, shit still seems to happen.”
He chuckles. “Could be worse. You could be stuck with wrinkly, old Dr. Anderson. But no, you get delicious Dr. Andrews. He’s a little uptight, but he is absolutely sexy .”
My mouth falls open and I turn to Martin then briefly look around to make sure any nursing staff isn’t within ear shot. “Oh really? I didn’t know you had a thing for Dr. Andrews.”
“I have a thing for any grumpy older man. It’s pathetic, really. Throw in the muscular dad bod he has going on and I’m a goner.”
Martin has been my only friend here in the city since the day I moved back. I get along with the other residents, I don’t feel like an outsider by any means, but Martin’s personality fits mine. He’s a second-year resident like me, but he worked as a surgical nursing aide in pre-op during undergrad then completed his residency here last year. He’s much more comfortable with the hospital atmosphere and the staff than I am. Within my first few weeks, he took me under his wing and told me that just because my dad is Chief, it doesn’t mean he’s going to show me any special treatment.
He invited me over to his place to play board games with him and his partner. His partner cooked us paella while Martin and I sipped white wine and vented about our schedules. That was the night I learned I’m on call nearly three times as much as other second-year residents. He poured me a second glass and told me I should be thankful I wasn’t a nepo baby; it was the best—and last—fun night I’ve had since returning to the city.
I can’t exactly disagree with Martin on Dr. Andrew’s looks. He’s the perfect mix of muscular and soft. I’m a warm-blooded woman who can appreciate a man that spends hours in the gym building muscle, but also isn’t afraid to turn down a double bacon cheeseburger when the occasion fits. I doubt he has a six pack for abs, but I bet he could bench press twice my body weight, and the image of him using me as the bar has my body humming.
“Ahh, I see someone agrees with me that Dr. Andrews is a hottie.”
I whip my head side to side before spinning in a slow circle to make sure there isn’t a soul around besides the two of us. Once I’ve confirmed it’s just us, do I dare whisper to Martin how I truly feel.
“I definitely … um … well he’s not ugly. That’s for sure.” And now that I’ve gotten used to his gruff demeanor, I kind of like it. Well, I like teasing him about it anyways.
Martin tries to hide a laugh with his matcha, the sound causing a shrill whistle from his nose.
“Remind me to knock twice and wait a minute before entering his office next time. Wouldn’t want to walk in and see him bending you over the corner of his desk.”
“Martin!” I scoff, reaching to slap a hand over his mouth. “If anyone hears you, oh my gosh. You’re dead.”
He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Just calling it like I see it. Anyone with a set of halfway decent eyes can see the way he looks at you.”
“Right,” I deadpan. “He looks at me like I’m going to make him sick.”
Martin scoffs. “You’re blind, girl. He looks at you like you make him curious, and for Dr. Andrews, that says something.”
“He hates me.”
“If that’s hate, I’d let him hate me all night long, and again in the morning.”
I turn to catch Martin’s eyes, wondering if there is a hint of truth behind his words. I’m not ready to admit to him, or to myself for that matter, that there have been a few times where I’ll catch Dr. Andrews looking at me … in a peculiar way. Like maybe he is curious about something. There are times we’ll be volleying insults back and forth, and when he goes to laugh, he’ll swipe a hand over his mouth, almost to wipe the smile away. Like the joke caught him off guard and he’s surprised each and every time that we get along.
And then there are times, like when he watched me braid my hair or when we talked about what real love should look like, that he looked at me in a way that made every part of my body flush.
“So did you hear that Dr. Anderson’s going to be performing a double transplant the day after tomorrow?”
My head swivels toward Martin, squinting to see if he’s serious or not. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was just dicking around to see if I’m listening.
“Are you for real? A double transplant? What type?”
He takes a slow, leisurely sip of his matcha, swiping a finger across his barely there mustache to wipe away invisible foam. “Word on the street is, it’s liver-kidney.”
Goosebumps break out along my arms. “Did you say ‘liver-kidney?’” While each transplant on its own is something we might see in our residency, someone needing both organs, and successfully qualifying for both at the same time, is rare. Too rare.
Martin smirks. “Mhm. People are saying Dr. Anderson has asked Dr. Andrews to assist, and they might pull in a chief resident. Nephrology will be there, too, so it’ll be a packed room.”
Dammit. My shoulders sag with the news. “So there’s no chance since I’m glued to Dr. Andrew’s hip that I’ll get to scrub in on that, hey?”
Martin nearly giggles at my pitiful hope. “Fat chance. Unless you’re ready to admit that there’s something going on between you and Dr. Andrews. The room will be packed with the necessary staff and residents who rank a hell of a lot higher than us. I highly doubt they’d let any of us even watch from the circulating station. Plus, those two working together is going to be pretty intense. If history repeats itself, instruments will be thrown and they’ll cuss each other out before the case is over.”
“There’s nothing going on between us, believe me. Dr. Grump definitely hasn’t developed a soft spot for me. Unless you count his scowls and one-word answers.” I puff out my chest to mimic Dr. Andrews’ muscular torso. “He walks around like a big grumpy bear, and half the time I’m so worried about making him mad that I fumble over my words—”
“Annaliese,” Martin hushes, reaching out to grab my forearm.
“It’s true. I fumble over my words and then he looks at me like I’ve offended him somehow. When really, I know what I’m talking about. I’m not the complete twat he seems to believe that I am.”
“I never said you were a twat. A little junior, maybe.”
My entire body freezes hearing the deep voice behind me. One that doesn’t belong to Martin or another one of our peers. It belongs to the one person who I wouldn’t have wanted to hear me talk about how grumpy he is.
I steel my shoulders, school my shock, and turn around to face Dr. Andrews. “I said you look at me like I’m a little twat, not that you called me one.”
Martin snorts at my comment, and I quickly spin to give him a dirty look before turning back to Colt. “Sorry about that, we were just chatting over the schedule and—”
“I’ve told you before, Keeton. Gossip and paint your nails on your own time, we have work to do.”
He moves past me and Martin through the double swinging doors of the post-op unit. I blow out a heavy breath and turn once more toward my friend to see if he has any final words of advice. Instead, he leaves me with a hesitant smile and a half-hearted thumbs up.
I follow Dr. Andrews’ path through post-op, easily finding him among the sea of beds as he stands a head taller than most. Saddling up next to him, I watch over his forearm as he silently scrolls through the vitals monitor on our recent case.
My eyes scan his hands, admiring the thickness of his wrist and the corded muscle that makes up his forearm as it flexes with each miniscule movement. But when I move my eyes back down, I pause, noticing a series of faint scars on the inner wrist of his left hand. They run horizontal along his forearm, and my stomach clenches at the realization. My time working in the psych ward during med school was very eye-opening. As someone who thankfully hasn’t had severe issues with mental health, it was hard for me to see others who were so burdened by their pain that they’d inflict harm on themselves.
I’ve been depressed, sure. There have been days where I’m in such a funk I don’t want to shower or eat. I know what it’s like to beg your body to snap out of it. But I don’t know what it’s like to be in so much pain on the inside that you want to hurt your body on the outside.
I look from the white slashes up to Dr. Andrews’ face, wanting to reach up and swipe back the tousled hair that falls over his forehead when his head is tilted down. Guilt washes over me, knowing that while I piss and moan about him not going easy on me, I’m also loving working next to him.
Yeah, I have a crush on him, but it’s more than that. He’s brilliant and talented, and even though I’ve caught him gritting his teeth in annoyance at my abundance of questions, he still answers each and every one. He has a reputation for being cold and unfriendly. From what I’ve heard, most people think it’s due to arrogance. I had originally thought that as well, but I wonder now if the so-called arrogance is just a mask he wears to protect himself. The scars lining his wrist are old and worn, but I still feel that nauseous embarrassment burning my throat. He probably doesn’t care what I think about him, I get that. And while I don’t want to blurt out my feelings over a loudspeaker, I definitely don’t want him to think anything that isn’t true.
“I don’t mean to call you Dr. Grump in a mean way,” I blurt out.
His eyes flicker to me for a split second before returning back to the screen, his scrolling resumed. “I know what people say about me, Keeton. I’m not breakable.”
“Well I know that.” I chuckle awkwardly, begging to lighten the mood.
“Then drop it.” His words are clipped, a clear signal that he wants the conversation to be over.
But I’ve never been good at shutting up when I’m supposed to.
“I just … it was a joke, and in poor taste. You might be surprised to hear I’m happy to be working with you.”
He throws a skeptical glance my way, nostrils flaring in response before turning his gaze back to the computer.
“I mean it,” I start again. “I’ve learned a lot, and yeah you push people to be better, but it’s in a way that a good surgeon does, not just to be an asshole. I think we get along, don’t you? I mean, it—”
“Keeton,” he says, his voice stern but a little softer this time. His eyes flick to the side and down to me, holding my stare for a minute. “It’s okay, really. You don’t have to.”
I nod in half-hearted acceptance, watching again as he scrolls in silence reviewing vitals before visiting each bedside to check post-op dressings.
When he’s satisfied with what he sees, he turns to leave, and I take that opportunity to snag his wrist.
He looks down at our connection, at my bravery, and I squeeze once before letting go. “I’ll drop it, I swear. I just want to make it clear that I didn’t mean it. I don’t want you to look at me and see someone who talks shit about you behind your back.”
He leans in, or maybe I do, but somehow we’re another step closer to each other, the space between us shrinking. “Believe me,” he rasps, his tongue darting out to brush over his bottom lip. “That’s not what I think when I look at you.”
Oh?
I inhale sharply, the act causing my chest to brush against his arm, and a rush of boldness comes forward. “What do you see, then?”
He’s quiet, and my mind begins to spiral, filling in the negative possibilities. A green resident. My boss’s daughter. An assignment.
I huff out an awkward laugh, stepping back to give some air between us. “Nevermind, ahh, but … we’re good?”
The moment seems to have broken for him too as he nods in acceptance and tilts his head toward his office.
We leave post-op in comfortable silence, and before we reach his office door, I remember the conversation that Martin and I were having. “So um…I hear that you and Dr. Anderson have a pretty intense case this week.”
Dr. Andrews’ steps don’t falter, but his eyes flick to the side briefly before going forward. “I wouldn’t call a double transplant intense. Rare and delicate, yes.”
“Do you think I’ll maybe get a chance to observe?”
We reach the door to his office, and Colt rifles through his pocket for his keys. He lets a slight smirk stretch across his face, huffing along with it. “There are more experienced residents who are dying to scrub in, Annaliese. Don’t take it personally but that’s a big ask.”
He opens the door and reaches to flick the light on then gestures for me to go first. I immediately slump down in the chair in front of his desk as he moves around to sit in his.
“I know,” I huff out. “It was worth a shot. I just mean that if there is even breathing room for a little mouse to stand around, I’d volunteer for the spot.”
When he smirks again while powering up his laptop, I’ve realized that he technically hasn’t said no, and when I see an open opportunity, I nab it.
I sit up properly in my chair, scooting it forward until my knees bump his desk. “I’m not asking you to bump the other residents or techs that are assisting. I’d be fine if I didn’t scrub in, I swear. I’d just love the opportunity to watch.”
Colt’s eyes flick to mine, and I swear I feel my heart patter for a moment. I’ve had plenty of opportunities to marvel at his talent and his gruff demeanor, but I’ve realized he rarely makes eye contact in conversation. And right now, with his shaggy brown hair swooping over his forehead and his midnight blue eyes staring right at me, I’m speechless.
“You really want to watch this, don’t you?”
I scooch forward until I’m sitting on the edge of my chair, nodding eagerly. “I’ll do all the grunt work. I’ll be the runner. I’ll stand in the corner absolutely silent. Hell, I’ll dab the sweat from your forehead if you need it.” Witnessing a team surgery like this would make the last few months of torture absolutely worth it. It’d be the drug I need to breathe new life into my veins.
I clasp my fingers together and bring them to my chin, nothing short of begging is beneath me at this point. I’m practically prostituting myself out to watch this case, and that thought has me looking at the corner of Colt’s desk; Martin’s comment about walking in to find me getting bent over the corner of said desk replays in my head, causing me to smirk. I run my tongue along the inside of my cheek in an attempt to hide it, but when I look up and swear I see the tips of Dr. Andrews’ ears burn red, I almost wonder if he can read my thoughts.
He sighs heavily and leans back in his chair to run his hands through his thick hair. The silence ticks on between us, and I find myself getting antsier by the second. I’m about to open my mouth to beg again when he finally grunts. “Argh, fine. I’ll see if I can add you to the team. I can’t promise anything besides watching, but be ready to scrub in just in case we need another set of hands.”
I flex my fingers together so I don’t start clapping like an excited child and stand from my seat, nearly bouncing on my heels at the prospect.
“I won’t let you down, I swear.”
“Christ, Keeton. I said you could watch the surgery; it’s not like I’m sending you off to war.”
“You’ll be so proud of me. I’ll fight for us, Dr. Andrews. No matter what.” I give a mock salute and he laughs. A real, belly-filled laugh, shaking his head as he comes down. “Get out of my office, Keeton. Go round on patients or answer a page. Make yourself useful before I change my mind.”